


Someone Else's Blood

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-16
Updated: 2006-08-16
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: The first time, of course, was an accident.





	Someone Else's Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mcee and ladyjaida.

The first time, of course, was an accident.

It wasn't Dean's fault. The girl was ridiculously fucking hot—tits busting out of her low-cut top, gloss-pink mouth pouting slightly and parting as she looked Dean up and down—but no way in hell was she eighteen, and Dean preferred his pussy legal. He squared out his shoulders and tried to keep his eyes from wandering down to where he could see the lace trim of her bra. It was bright red.

"You just need a single for the night?" the girl purred, and licked her lips.

Dean glanced out the window to the parking lot, where Sam was slouched in the front seat of the car, scowling at Dad's journal. "No," he said. The girl leaned over the counter; Dean took a step back. With his luck, she'd have an older brother who was a cop, and Dean could think of far more entertaining ways to spend his night than holed up in some hick town jail cell. "No," he repeated, "uh, there are two of us. My, uh. My boyfriend's with me," he blurted, not thinking about it.

The girl raised both of her eyebrows.

"I mean, uh," Dean said, but it was too late: he'd already said it.

Jesus Christ, Sam was going to _kill_ him.

Unless he didn't find out. Dean was a goddamn criminal mastermind.

The girl huffed and tugged at her shirt. "Your _boyfriend_ ," she said acidly, and snatched a key off the wall. "Fine. Here."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Dean said, and winked at her, just to see her glare at him. It was too bad, really—give her a couple years and he'd be more than glad to fuck her over that countertop, just stick one hand up her skirt and push a couple fingers right into her wet cunt.

Not that he was thinking about it or anything.

They were in that town for three days. Dean spent the entire time wondering if the girl was going to blow his cover, but she restrained herself to the sort of icy looks that could probably have made a lesser man's dick shrivel up and fall off, and Sam never found out.

Dean didn't mean to do it again. Sam was a cranky motherfucker, and he would probably bust Dean's balls for pulling a stunt like that, but sometimes it was the path of least resistance. Dean liked women, but not all of them, and some just wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Homosexuality, on the other hand, deterred them pretty goddamn fast.

And okay, sometimes Dean just did it to be a smartass. Like if a convenience store clerk in some hick town gave him the hairy eyeball—"My boyfriend loves these things," Dean would say, plunking down a Snickers bar, and watch with evil glee as the asshole's lip curled up.

By the time it finally got him in trouble, he'd been doing it for so long that it was a reflex, just another way for him to brush people off or cause trouble. He'd stopped worrying about it; he didn't think Sam would ever find out.

They were in upstate New York, looking into the mysterious deaths of two teenage girls, and some chick at the library kept talking to Dean and wouldn't leave him alone. Normally that wouldn't have been a problem, but A) she was fucking annoying, and B) she had a Hello Kitty purse slung over her shoulder, which was like a flashing neon sign saying, "Please arrest Dean Winchester for statutory rape."

"You're using it wrong," she said, hovering at Dean's elbow as he fiddled with the copy machine.

"No, I'm not," he said.

"It'll come out all messed up if you do it that way," the chick said, and snapped her gum. "You have to resize it."

Dean snuck a glance down her shirt. There was definitely nothing down there to make her obnoxiousness worthwhile. He hit the green start button and watched as a perfectly sized and aligned copy reeled its way out of the machine. "Looks okay to me," he said, snatching it up.

"Yeah, but. Um," the girl said, playing with the trailing ends of her ponytail.

Dean felt a vein in his forehead start to throb. "Look, my boyfriend's waiting for me," he said, and walked away from Obnoxious Copier Chick, over to where Sam was frowning at his laptop. He laid one hand on the back of Sam's neck and glanced over at the girl, who was scowling. Dean smirked. Mission accomplished.

"Get off me," Sam said.

"You wound me," Dean said, and flopped down onto one of the hard wooden chairs pulled up to the table Sam had claimed.

"Yeah, cut to the quick," Sam mumbled, chewing on his lip and typing away.

"We could have a sword duel," Dean offered. "I'd kick your ass."

"Tempting as that sounds, I think I'll pass," Sam said, and turned the laptop toward Dean. "Look at this. It says here that the girls _were_ at the Sutter mansion that night."

Dean squinted at the screen. "So why the fuck doesn't it say that anywhere else?"

Sam shrugged. "Cops didn't think it was important, I guess. Or else they were covering it up. This is from the local newspaper, it didn't make it to the wire reports or anything."

"Huh," Dean said. "So let's go look at the mansion."

They drove out. It was overcast, drizzly, late autumn already giving way to winter. The mansion was perched on top of a hill out past the edge of the town. It was the most fucking ridiculous thing Dean had ever seen—it looked like something out of a goddamn theme park, iron fence and rotting Victorian trim and all.

"Oh fuck me," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes and got out of the car. "You're such a drama queen. It's just a house."

"Old man Sutter must've been smoking crack when he built this place," Dean muttered. He followed Sam up the crumbling brick walkway, their boots scuffing dully.

The place was empty inside, musty-smelling, boarded up. Dean walked around with his EMF reader and didn't pick up a damn thing. No sulfur, no mysterious flares of blue light, not even a few suspicious-looking dust bunnies.

"Find anything?" Sam asked, clattering down the stairs.

"Diddly-fuckin'-squat," Dean said. "This is a waste of time."

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "So we do more research."

"I thought you'd done that already. You slacking off on me, Sammy?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"Don't make me beat your lazy ass," Dean said. He tucked the EMF reader back in his coat pocket. "Let's get outta here, I want some lunch."

Sam read over all the articles again while they were eating, pages of newspaper and photocopies spread out over the table, catching burger drippings.

"Here, gimme some," Dean said, grabbing randomly at a stack of papers.

"Don't get them all greasy," Sam said.

There was nothing worthwhile in the first three articles he looked at—more bullshit about Responsible Parenting and Wholesome Small-Town Values. The fourth article was from the local paper two towns over, and he was just getting to the interesting part when a flicker of movement caught his attention.

The chick from the library was standing by their table, arms crossed, Hello Kitty purse still firmly attached to her shoulder.

Dean showed her all his teeth and hoped it looked kind of like a smile. "Can I help you?"

"Are you enjoying your meal?" she asked, glaring at him.

"Oh yeah," Dean said. He picked up his fork and shoveled in a mouthful of chicken salad. "Delicious. Right, honey?"

"Hmmm?" Sam said, not looking up from the newspaper he was reading.

Dean beamed up at the girl. "Couldn't be happier," he said.

The girl snorted and flounced off, disappearing through the swinging doors that led into the diner's kitchen.

Dean rolled his eyes and went back to his stack of papers. _...bodies were recovered from Hanshaw Creek the next day. Amanda Sutter, also 18, was released from police custody after—_

"Whoa, look at this," Dean said, shoving the papers over to Sam's side of the table.

"Huh? What is it?"

"Sounds like there were _three_ girls that night, not two," Dean said. "The police questioned this chick but didn't think she was a suspect. How much you wanna bet she saw something that we need to know about?"

"Amanda Sutter," Sam said, scanning the paper. "Okay. Let's see if we can find her."

Dean went to pay their tab. The woman at the register was frumpy and middle-aged, and clearly wanted nothing to do with Dean. "That'll be $12.41," she said, and snapped her gum.

"Do you know where I could find Amanda Sutter?" Dean asked her, handing over a twenty.

The women narrowed her eyes at him, then shrugged. "I sure do," she said, and then turned her head and hollered, "Amanda!"

Hello Kitty Purse girl poked her head around the corner. "What," she snapped.

Dean hadn't felt such pure and heart-stopping terror since the time he was cornered by a werewolf in Colorado.

***

"I _told_ you, I didn't see anything," Amanda said, folding her arms over her cardigan and jiggling her knees back and forth.

Sam nodded earnestly. "Well, did you sense anything? Like, a presence, or—"

"I don't believe in any of that ghost nonsense," Amanda said.

Dean gave up and sat down on the sidewalk, his boots scuffing along the asphalt of the parking lot. Amanda wasn't going to tell them anything. "We're wasting our time," he announced.

Sam shot a glare at him. "Sorry he's such a jerk," he said to Amanda.

She raised her eyebrows. "You know, I thought the two of you would be more _friendly_ with each other."

Sam blinked. "I. What? Why would you think that?"

Amanda looked at him like he was retarded. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because of the whole—"

Dean stood up, then, and gave Amanda his best shit-eating grin. "Okay! Thanks for your time, Amanda!" He grabbed Sam's elbow and started dragging him toward the car.

"Dean, what the fuck," Sam whispered furiously.

"Shut up," Dean said.

"I'm serious, Dean, what's going on?"

"Nothing, shut up," Dean said, and shoved Sam into the car.

"Ow! _Dean_!" Sam yelped, barking his head on the doorframe. "Why are you—"

"Shut _up_ ," Dean barked, slamming the heel of his hand against the roof of his car, and Sam finally— _finally_ —did.

They were both silent on the drive back to the motel, Sam doing his best to wither the roadside flora with his glare, Dean flexing his hands rhythmically around the steering wheel.

Sam went into the bathroom as soon as they got back. Dean heard the sink cut on, the toilet flush. He flopped down on his bed and closed his eyes for a few seconds, just taking a quick rest.

He woke up with Sam leaning over him, right up in his face. Dean hollered and fell off the bed, arms flailing uselessly.

"It's almost five," Sam said.

Dean scowled. "Help me up," he demanded, holding out one arm.

"What, you can do it yourself?" Sam asked, but he took hold of Dean's hand and pulled him to his feet.

" _Thank_ you," Dean said. "Let's get some sandwiches. I'm gonna call Amanda, we're going to the mansion tonight."

"I don't get a say in this?"

"Nope," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. "Whatever. I want turkey."

"Whatever," Dean said, and went to get his jacket.

He called Amanda from the car while Sam was in the 7-11 getting their sandwiches. "Hey, Amanda, it's Tommy Robbins," he said.

"What do you want," Amanda said.

Dean gritted his teeth. "Jonas and I are going to the mansion tonight, we want you to come along."

"Look, I realize the two of you are real excited about this amateur ghost-hunting bullshit or whatever it is you're up to, but I've already made plans," Amanda said.

"Okay, then I'll go the police and tell them I've got evidence that you were involved in your friends' deaths," Dean said, hoping she wouldn't call his bluff.

She didn't. She was quiet for a while, and then she said, "I don't have a car. You'll have to come pick me up." She rattled off an address and hung up.

Sam opened the passenger door and clambered in. "Here's your sandwich," he said.

"I think Amanda's involved."

"Uh, what?" Sam asked, unwrapping his sandwich.

Dean waved one hand impatiently. "You know, the _girls_ , the girls who died, I think Amanda had something to do with it."

"What makes you think that?"

"Amanda Sutter. The Sutter Mansion. You drawing any connections there, genius boy?"

"So they've got the same last name, so what," Sam said. He lifted the top slice of his sandwich and peered at it suspiciously. "Does this bread look moldy to you?"

"Shut up about the fucking bread, Sam, I'm trying to tell you I think we need to keep an eye on her."

"Hmm," Sam said. He squeezed another pack of mayo onto his sandwich. "You want to take a civilian into a potentially haunted house."

It sounded stupid when Sam said it like that. Dean scratched the back of his head. "Well, yeah."

"So you've lost your mind, is what you're telling me."

"Shut up," Dean said, and pulled the cling wrap off his own sandwich. "I have a feeling, okay? Just fucking don't argue with me, for once."

Sam shrugged, took a bite of his sandwich. "Okay," he said.

Dean blinked. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"I kind of agree with you," Sam said.

"Huh," Dean said.

They picked up Amanda just as it was getting dark. She was waiting for them at the end of the sidewalk leading up to her house. Sam got out of the car and opened the door for her, like the gentleman he was.

"Nice work, Don Juan," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes.

Amanda was wearing a huge, puffy coat, and she had a sleeping bag with her, and a grocery bag full of food. "I hope you two don't turn out to be psychopaths or something," she said.

Dean glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Huh. Or something," he said.

"I've got some mace, you better not try anything," Amanda said, and opened up a bag of Twizzlers. "You want one?" she asked Sam.

"Uh. No thanks," Sam said.

The house was pitch black inside and _freezing_. Dean sent Sam back out to the car to get some blankets out of the trunk. They set up camp in what probably used to be the dining room, Sam and Dean sitting on the floor against one wall and Amanda across from them, her flashlight glowing red inside her sleeping bag.

"So, this is fun," Amanda said. "What am I here for again?"

"You saw something that night," Dean said. "When your friends were killed."

"No," Amanda said, but she was lying.

Dean shrugged. "You're staying." He wasn't sure what he was thinking, exactly, but if Amanda was related to this Sutter guy—well, there were rumblings in Dean's head about blood ties and sacrifice and family duty, and he didn't like what it was all adding up to.

"Jesus, _fine_ ," Amanda said. She whipped out her cell phone and started punching at buttons.

Dean tipped his head back and rested it against the wall. Sam was flipping through Dad's journal, his hair falling into his eyes, the glow of their portable lantern casting one side of his face in shadow. His lips moved slightly as he read, a habit from childhood that he'd never fully outgrown.

It was cold in the house. Dean tucked his blanket more securely around his shoulders. Some impulse seized him, quick and subconscious. He turned his head and breathed on Sam's neck, nosed at the warm artery pulsing there.

Sam twitched away and looked over at him, wide-eyed, like he was panicking or like—like he was—

Whatever, it was _funny_. Ha ha. Dean was laughing. "You always smell so good, sweetie," he said.

Sam opened his mouth and Dean elbowed him sharply, cutting him off before he could blow their cover.

"You know, you two are kind of cute," Amanda said.

"Uh, thanks," Sam said. He glanced over at Dean, mouth pursed.

"How long have you been together?" Amanda asked.

"Three years," Dean said. He put one hand on Sam's knee.

"We're very happy," Sam said, and placed his own hand on top of Dean's.

Dean should have been glad that Sam was going along with it, keeping his goddamn mouth shut and taking Dean's cues, but Sam was rubbing his thumb over Dean's knuckles, and Dean wanted to knock his hand away or kill something or go drive for miles, do something to justify the stupid way his heart was hammering away in his chest, rhythmless and terrifying. He couldn't move. Sam's hand was a lead weight, pinning Dean there to the floor.

Amanda went back to texting on her cell phone. Sam leaned in close, his hair brushing against Dean's neck. "I know what you're up to," he murmured.

Dean thought, _I doubt it_.

Amanda fell asleep around 2:00, curled in a tiny blanketed lump on the floor. Dean could feel Sam drifting off beside him, body going heavy and lax.

"You sleep," Dean told him. "I'll wake you up in two hours."

Sam didn't argue at all. He fell asleep leaning against Dean's shoulder, drooling erratically onto Dean's jacket.

Dean sat awake all night, arm going numb from Sam's weight and legs going numb from the cold floor. He watched his breath cloud out like cigarette smoke. He watched Amanda sleep. He listened to Sam's tiny night murmurs, less than speech but still discernible, still something Dean wanted to understand.

Dawn came, finally. Dean kicked at Sam's foot until Sam scowled and opened his eyes.

"You didn't wake me up," Sam said.

"Nope," Dean said cheerfully.

"Did you see anything?"

"Yeah, old man Sutter made an appearance, I just figured I'd let you work on your beauty sleep."

"Jerk," Sam said. He clambered to his feet and went over to wake Amanda.

They dropped Amanda off at her house. She stumbled up the sidewalk, still half-asleep, and disappeared inside. Dean sighed and tapped his hands on the steering wheel.

"So," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Fuck. Okay. I need some sleep. We're going back to the mansion tonight."

"What? Why? There isn't anything there, Dean, I think we've hit a dead end."

"No," Dean said. "I think we didn't see anything because of Amanda."

"So how did those girls die, then, if she was with them," Sam said.

"I don't know," Dean said.

He slept all day, burrowed in his bed with the blinds drawn. He woke from time to time, heard Sam moving around the room or typing at the computer, then fell back asleep. He didn't dream. He woke up for good at dusk. Sam was asleep in the other bed, head buried under a pillow. Dean snorted and went into the bathroom to take a shower.

Sam was still asleep when Dean came back into the main room. "Wake up," he said, snapping his wet towel at Sam's ass.

"F'koff," Sam mumbled.

"Get up, Sammy, we got places to be. Let's get a pizza, I'll buy."

"Okay, okay," Sam moaned, sitting up and rubbing at his face. "Ugh. Lemme take a shower."

They got carryout pizza from Papa John's. Sam started eating it on the way to the house, making happy chewing noises and dipping the crust in the atomic yellow garlic sauce.

"You drip any of that shit on my seats, they'll never find your body," Dean warned.

"Whatever," Sam said.

Dean parked on the street outside the house. "Gimme some pizza," he said.

"We aren't going in?" Sam asked, handing over a slice.

"No. Whatever it is might not show up if we're in there. I think Amanda might be in communication with it."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, you don't have any evidence for this stuff, you're just making it up."

"Whatever," Dean said. He snagged the hot pepper out of the pizza box.

"Please tell me you're not going to eat that," Sam said.

"At least I don't have atomic garlic breath," Dean said, and popped the pepper into his mouth.

They finished off the pizza and then sat there in silence, watching the windows of the house, their breath mingling visibly in the enclosed space of the car. There were no streetlights nearby, only the full moon spilling in through the windshield.

"So why'd you tell Amanda that we're dating," Sam said after a while.

Dean shifted in his seat. "She was annoying me, I was trying to get her to leave me alone," Dean said.

"That's possibly the stupidest idea you've ever had," Sam said.

"Shut up. I wasn't thinking, okay? She has a fuckin' Hello Kitty purse, Sammy, I just wanted her to leave me the fuck alone."

"And then you didn't fess up."

"What, 'Hey, we need you to help us with this case, oh by the way the guy I told you was my boyfriend is actually my brother, now trust me even though I lied to you.' That'd go over _real_ well."

"Well, maybe," Sam said. He turned his head, looking out the window toward the house. "I just, I don't. Why didn't you tell her you were engaged or something? Why not a girlfriend? Telling people you're involved in a gay relationship with your _brother_ isn't really the first thing that comes to mind."

"I know," Dean said. Sam swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing, the movement of it faint in the pale moonlight.

"Sam," Dean said. He put his hand on Sam's thigh, high up, higher than he should have. He ran his fingers over the inner seam of Sam's jeans.

"Dean," Sam said, breathless and squeaky, "nobody's watching now, we don't—"

"I know," Dean said, and unbuttoned Sam's pants anyway.

Sam was already hard, his cock a hot line in his boxers. Dean traced the length of it, rubbed his thumb over the wet patch on the cloth.

"Oh god," Sam gasped, hips bucking, his throat making a clicking sound.

Dean pulled Sam's boxers down, tucked the elastic waistband under Sam's balls. Sam's cock was thick, flushed. Dean wrapped his hand around it, squeezed, started stroking.

"Dean," Sam said, "Dean, Dean," his head lolling against the seat back, his legs moving restlessly in the footwell.

"Shh," Dean said. He rubbed his palm over the head of Sam's cock, smeared wetness down the shaft. Sam was biting hard at his lip, his hips straining upward, one hand clenched on the door handle and the other tangled in Dean's jacket.

"Dean, I can't," Sam said, "Dean—"

"I know my name, Sammy," Dean murmured. His wrist ached from the awkward angle, but he didn't care, he watched the long line of Sam's throat, the way Sam's eyelids fluttered.

Sam whined, a high and needy sound, and he let go of the door to scrabble down between his legs, grabbing at his own balls, his hand colliding with Dean's.

"Hey," Dean said, "hey," and Sam turned his head and kissed Dean, clumsy and wet, their teeth colliding, and it was the worst kiss Dean'd had since fuckin' middle school or something, but he didn't care, he leaned into Sam's mouth, sucked hungrily at his tongue.

"Oh god," Sam said again, and came all over Dean's fist.

In the silence that followed, Dean wiped his hand on one of the Papa John's napkins. Sam buttoned up his jeans. Dean tossed the pizza box into the back seat. Then there was a flare of light in the house, phosphorous-shine through the windows, and they were out of the car and running up the walkway toward the door.

After, covered with smoke and rock salt dust and some weird goo that Sutter's ghost spewed at them, Dean drove them back to the motel with his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, back straight, checking his blind spot carefully before changing lanes, even though it was 3:00 in the morning and the roads were deserted.

"Look, Dean," Sam said, after about fifteen minutes of silence.

"Can we not talk about this?" Dean asked, feeling pained.

"Okay," Sam said.

"Okay?"

"You think I want to talk about it either?"

"Good point," Dean said.

***

But of course Sam wanted to talk about it, sneaky, lying bastard that he was.

"So, last night," Sam said over breakfast, naturally picking the moment right after Dean had taken a huge bite of scrambled eggs and couldn't defend himself. "I don't, uh. Did you? I mean, we haven't really—"

"I don't." Dean swallowed his eggs. "I don't think about you that way."

"Uh-huh," Sam said.

"I _don't_."

"Sure, I know," Sam said. He used his fork to push his home fries around on his plate.

"Sam," Dean said, helpless, frustrated. "I'm not, uh. I don't know what, I mean. I just—I _wanted_ to, I couldn't—"

"I know," Sam said.

Christ. Dean propped his elbow on the table and rested his head on his left hand, his palm pressed firmly against his temple, and finished up his eggs.

"Okay," Sam said. "So we took care of the ghost, what do you want to do about Amanda?"

Dean shrugged. "What _can_ we do? _She_ didn't kill those girls, and the cops would never believe us anyway."

"Still," Sam said, frowning, "it isn't _right_ , she shouldn't be able to do something like that and then just get away with it—"

"Yeah, well, the bad guys don't always get what they deserve, Sam, this isn't Court TV. Sometimes people do awful shit and get away with it," Dean said, and got up to pay their check.

Amanda answered the door, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn. "Go away," she said, and started to close the door.

Dean stuck his boot inside the doorframe. "We've got some questions to ask you," he said.

"Go _away_ ," Amanda said, pushing helplessly against the door.

"No way," Dean said.

"Amanda," Sam said, shouldering Dean out of the way, "we need your help on this, okay? We need to know what happened to your friends so that it doesn't happen to anyone else."

Amanda sniffled and tugged at her hair. "Okay," she said. "Okay. You can come in, my parents are both at work."

She led them into the living room. Dean sat down on the sofa, and Sam sat down next to him, like, _right_ next to him, so close their thighs were pressing together. Dean shifted away awkwardly. Sam shifted too, following him.

Amanda raised an eyebrow at them. "You two done?" she asked.

Fucking Sam. Dean gritted his teeth and held still. "True love is never done," he said.

"Uh-huh," Amanda said.

"So, Amanda," Sam said, putting on his best I-Am-Earnest-and-Boyish face. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You know about the ghost, right?" His voice was low and soothing, and Amanda responded to it, relaxing in her armchair.

"Yeah," she said. "He's my—there's a spell, you see, the Sutters, we have to give him sacrifices so he—so he stays happy, or else—otherwise he takes one of us, and my—he said he would take my little sister unless I—" She broke off then, and started crying softly, her brown hair hanging over her face.

Sam produced a package of tissues out of nowhere and handed them to Amanda. She took them with a weak smile and blew her nose. "I'm sorry," she said, "this is just—it's kind of—they were my _friends_ , and I had to _choose_ , and—"

"I know," Sam said. "It's okay. Just tell us what else you know. What happened to your friends?"

"I—I took them to the house, but he got mad, it wasn't the right place, he told me to take them out to the woods, so—so I did, and there was this funny-looking stone there, and then I said some words and they fell onto the ground. I don't remember what else happened—I guess, I guess I kind of blacked out, because the next thing I knew I was back home." Amanda rubbed at her eyes. She looked exhausted, tormented. Dean couldn't help feeling sorry for her—she'd been in a tough position, and now she'd have to live with the consequences for the rest of her life.

"Okay," Sam said. "Okay. Where in the woods?"

"I'll have to show you," Amanda said. "We'll have to be careful, I—he's angry with me—"

"It's okay," Sam said. "We'll take care of it. You just need to show us where to go." He sat back and placed one hand on Dean's shoulder, sliding it along until his fingers were stroking at the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck.

Dean shivered reflexively. "Let's get going," he said, and stood up. Sam's hand fell away.

Amanda went to wash her face and grab her purse. Sam and Dean loitered around near the front door, shoulders bumping aimlessly, both of them too big for the small entry hall.

"This shit can never be easy, can it?" Dean grumbled. "Why couldn't we just kill the fuckin' ghost and get out of here? I hate all this secret magical altar bullshit."

"It'll be fine, Dean. You'll probably get to burn something."

"Hmm," Dean said. Okay, fine, so he was excited about the burning part.

Amanda let them out into the butt-ass backwoods, a good half-hour trek off one of the narrow country roads near the mansion. The ground was covered with dry leaves; they crunched dramatically under Dean's boots. He lagged behind, let Sam walk with Amanda, murmur sweet nothings to her or whatever.

"Okay," Amanda said finally, stopping in a little clearing. "This is it."

"Huh," Dean said. There wasn't much to look at—some huge rock with weird markings on it, drawn on with black paint or charcoal. "That's the altar?"

"Yeah," Amanda said. She was backing up, edging back into the trees. "I can't—I'm not sure I should—"

"You go wait in the car," Dean said, and Amanda gave him a grateful smile and fled.

Dean sighed, slung his duffel bag down off his shoulder. "All right," he said to Sam. "Let's burn this bitch."

"It's a _rock_ , Dean. How are we supposed to burn a rock?"

"Gasoline and matches. Learn from the master," Dean said. He tossed Dad's journal over to Sam. "Might as well do an exorcism while we're at it."

Old man Sutter decided that it would be a fun idea to re-manifest halfway through the exorcism prayer. He managed to throw Sam hard against the ground before Dean shot him full of rock salt.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Jesus. Ouch. All right, I'm finished, go ahead and burn it."

"Okay, dead ghost, burned rock, we're set," Dean said, and tossed a lit match onto the altar.

They watched until the flames died out, leaving a blackened lump of stone, nothing interesting to see anymore. Dean hoped it would be enough to get rid of Sutter for good. If it wasn't, well, Amanda had his cell phone number.

"Let's go," Sam said. He hooked two fingers in Dean's jacket pocket, tugged a little.

"Stop it," Dean said, and turned to walk back to the car.

Amanda was waiting for them, leaning against the side of the car, huddled deep in her huge coat. "Did you—"

"We got him," Sam said.

"You fucked up, kid," Dean said. "Try not to kill anybody else."

" _Dean_ ," Sam said sharply.

"Whatever, Sammy, she knows," Dean said.

Amanda bit her lip and didn't say anything.

Dean dropped her off at her house. "Call me if anything else happens," he said. "I mean it. No more mysterious deaths."

"Okay," Amanda said. "Thank you."

It was late afternoon by the time they ate lunch and got back to the motel. Dean flopped down on the bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep for about eight billion hours. A beer would be nice, too, come to think of it. Maybe some steak.

"Hey," Sam said. He sat down on the bed next to Dean, the mattress shifting under his weight.

"What," Dean said.

Sam didn't say anything. He put one hand on Dean's hip, palming the ridge of bone there.

"Stop," Dean said.

"No," Sam said. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes," Dean said.

"I don't believe you," Sam said. He slid his hand up, underneath Dean's t-shirt, the tip of one finger sliding into Dean's navel.

Dean's breath caught. He tried to sit up, but Sam put his other hand on Dean's shoulder, held him down.

"Hey," Sam said. He pushed his hand up further, his calluses rubbing roughly against Dean's nipples. "Dean. Oh, god. I don't know what to—"

"Shut _up_ ," Dean said, pushing Sam's hands away, sitting up and kissing Sam's surprised mouth, grabbing at his hair, the neckline of his shirt.

"Do you want to—"

"I said shut up," Dean said roughly. He stripped them both methodically, pulling off his shirt and then Sam's, knocking Sam's hands away when he tried to help. He threw Sam's tennis shoes across the room, infuriated with the laces, and one of them struck the wall and left a black mark there.

"You'll have to pay for that," Sam said, laughing against Dean's mouth.

"You pay, it's your shoe," Dean said, and wrestled Sam's jeans down off his hips, palmed Sam's cock, so hard and warm beneath his hand.

Sam stopped laughing. He flipped them over, ended up half on his side, half sprawled on top of Dean, the head of his cock skidding wetly against Dean's belly. It was so—it was too—

"Sam," Dean gasped, twisting his hips.

"I know," Sam said, biting at Dean's mouth, sliding his tongue in and licking at Dean's palate, the fillings in his molars.

Dean turned his head away, wanting but not, flushed, stupidly confused. He grabbed Sam's ass with both hands, hiked him higher, Sam heavy and restless on top of him. "I hate you," he said, and bit Sam's earlobe.

"You don't," Sam said, his hips working mindlessly, jolting against Dean's. "Dean. Tell me you don't."

"I don't," Dean said. "Christ. _Sam_." He wanted everything, he wanted things he wasn't supposed to want. "I—Sam, I want to fuck you, I—"

"Oh," Sam said, and then he was coming in hot spurts against Dean's hip, his breath huffing damp and warm against the side of Dean's neck.

Dean snaked a hand down between them, jerked himself roughly, his cock and knuckles sliding against Sam's thigh. Sam pressed his face in further, his stubble scraping against Dean's neck. Dean thought about nothing, wrenched his hips upward into his waiting fist.

He wasn't expecting—he was surprised to feel Sam's fingers skating across his hip and tracing the soft skin of his groin, tucking in beside his balls. He shivered, thigh muscles quaking.

"Dean. Let me," Sam murmured, and wrapped his hand around Dean's cock, bumping Dean's own hand out of the way. Sam stroked tentatively, the edge of a fingernail catching, and Dean came abruptly, shocked by it, his teeth rattling in his jaw. He watched his come spilling out over Sam's fingers, and he had to close his eyes then, let Sam stroke him through it.

"Dean," Sam said, "Dean," biting at Dean's neck, sucking a hot bruise right over his artery.

Dean shoved him away.

"Hey, what—" Sam said.

"Don't," Dean said.

Sam rolled off the bed, went into the bathroom. The shower cut on. Dean lay there on the bed, panting, feeling like the world was spinning around him. He got up and pulled his clothes back on, grabbed his wallet. He needed some goddamn beer.

He ended up walking around for a while, the six-pack swinging in a plastic bag and thumping rhythmically against the side of his leg. He walked down to the river. It was flat and gray, the same color as the sky. He threw a few rocks into it, watched them ripple and disappear.

A mom showed up with two little kids in a stroller and looked at Dean like she thought he was going to rape her babies right in front of her. Jesus Christ. He gave up and went back to the motel.

Sam was sitting on one of the beds, watching TV, but he got up when Dean came in the door. "Where the fuck have you been," he said.

"Buying some beer," Dean said. He set the six-pack down on the table.

"For three hours?"

"Must've lost track of time," Dean said. "What's on TV."

"What the fuck, Dean! What's your problem!" Sam shouted. "You don't get to disappear on three-hour  beer runs without letting me know where you're going!"

"You're not my mom," Dean said.

"Yeah, and thank god for that, I'd probably go insane! I don't know what your problem is!"

"You don't think it's a little _weird_ that we keep _randomly having sex_?" Dean asked.

Sam deflated. "Um. Maybe?"

"Thought so," Dean said. He pulled out a beer and knocked the cap off on the top of the table.

"Look, Dean, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here. There's no reason for you to be such a bitch about it."

"Yeah, whatever, Sammy, you're hardly one to talk."

Sam leaned against the table, rubbed at his temples. "Dean, I just. I need you to tell me what's going on. Okay? I don't think I'm being unreasonable."

"I want to," Dean said.

"That's not an answer," Sam said.

"Christ. I want—I think about you that way. Goddammit. I think about you."

"Oh, so you're so horny you can't keep it in your pants? Is that what it is? I'm just the closest warm body?" Sam asked sarcastically.

Dean slammed his beer down on the table, liquid sloshing over the rim. " _No_ ," he said, "Jesus, Sam, how could you think that."

"What else am I supposed to think? You're not exactly being open and communicative!"

"Because of course you want to talk about your feelings like a fucking _girl_."

"Did I say that? I just want to know that my _brother_ , who keeps giving me _handjobs_ , hasn't completely lost his mind!" Sam shouted.

"Fine," Dean snapped, a hot, irrational surge of rage in his belly ripping all the shame right out of him. "You want me to say it? You got it. I can't fucking live without you," he said, his voice getting louder and louder until he was yelling. "Okay? It's fucked up and stupid and I don't fucking care! Okay?"

"Fine," Sam said, crossing his arms and glaring.

" _Fine_ ," Dean said, and then they were kissing, wet and desperate, Sam's hands fisted in the hemline of Dean's shirt and his knuckles brushing against the skin above Dean's waistband.

***

They went to Kentucky next. It was warmer there, kind of. Better than New York, anyway. Dean fucking hated New York.

"You go in and get us a room," Dean said.

"What? Why do I have to go in?" Sam asked.

"Because I'm older and I said so," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're a cranky bastard," he said, but he got out of the car and went into the motel office.

Dean watched through the window as the girl at the counter flirted outrageously with Sam, tossing her hair and crossing her arms to emphasize her cleavage. He couldn't see Sam's face, but the way Sam was shifting his weight told Dean that Sam wasn't exactly happy about all the attention he was getting.

Sam came back out finally, dropped a room key into Dean's hand. "We have a single for the night," he said.

"Oh yeah? A single? What'd you tell your biggest fan in there?"

"I said my boyfriend was waiting for me in the car," Sam said, and when Dean punched him in the arm, he threw back his head and laughed.  



End file.
